


just a serious song to a lighthearted beat

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boy Band, Community: fullmoon_ficlet, Escape, Gen, Possibly Pre Derek/Jackson/Stiles, Possibly Pre Derek/Jackson/Stiles/Lydia, Possibly Pre-Slash, Pre-Relationship, squint and you'll see it - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 21:19:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5064571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was Stiles’s idea to try out for that talent show as a boy band, and now that they’ve exploded into popularity, sometimes all he wants to do is escape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just a serious song to a lighthearted beat

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for prompt #143 - Escape at fullmoon_ficlet. I had this image of Derek being part of the backup band for a boy band that Stiles and Jackson belonged to, and they thought he was just security, and then it kind of wandered off from there. It starts strong, but gets quiet at the end, but I think that’s sort of a musical thing, too. As always, I do not own the world nor characters of Teen Wolf, I just like to play with them.

It’s those first few moments when a concert’s done—when they’re trying to get off stage and through the throngs in the back—that are the most chaotic. Stiles spots the waiting groupies, notes which ones have tags that authorize them to be there, and exchanges a glance with Jackson. Neither of them wants to be there, not tonight. “Ditch?” Stiles asks, as if they didn’t already talk about it before the sound check, and Jackson just nods curtly.

There are screams when they step into the light, and Stiles does his best not to wince. Someone grabs at his sleeve and yanks, and he stumbles, almost losing his footing and falling into the crowd. He smiles as politely as he can manage, takes a photograph from the girl and signs it without even really looking at it. He can see Scott, surrounded by girls with Isaac hovering nearby, a shy smile tilting in his features. And Danny is surrounded by guys, perfectly at ease taking selfies and signing wrists and chests.

Stiles hates this part, but sometimes he can’t escape.

He’s lost track of Jackson in the crowd and he feels like he’s in danger of going under, trampled by over-excited teenage girls. He’s not that much older than most of them, only just turned nineteen and barely out of school. He never expected life to be like this, all because of one silly attempt to get on a reality TV show that exploded in his face when it actually worked.

A hand closes around his upper arm and pulls, and Stiles windmills out of the grasp of two girls who were pulling him close enough to kiss his cheek. They shriek, reaching out for him, as Stiles falls against a hard body that twists with him and spins him into a space where he can actually breathe.

There’s a stranger looking at him, all wide shoulders and scruffed beard, and hazel eyes furrowed in concern. “Lydia said you and Jackson wanted out tonight.”

Stiles blinks, trying to figure out who the hell this is. New security. He must be new security. “Yeah. We’re not—those guys are the social ones. We’ve been on this tour for three months now and we’ve had enough, so we just wanted to escape for once.”

The guy nods, touches his chest. “Derek,” he says, when it’s obvious that Stiles has absolutely no idea how to name him.

“Derek,” Stiles repeats, and he waits, because if Derek is security, shouldn’t he be doing something?

“I’ve got a car lined up!” Lydia yells out, and Derek lets go of Stiles enough to nudge him in that direction. Jackson is hovering by the side door, peering out, and Stiles sees the black car and tinted windows sneaking quietly past the crowd.

The car pauses, and Derek yells, “Go, now!” and they all make a break for it, piling into the back seats and slamming the doors before anyone notices. Stiles just barely hears a shout, but it doesn’t matter because the doors are locked and the car is pulling away and he can pretend that they aren’t even out there.

“They’re getting worse,” Jackson mutters.

Stiles puts his feet up on the seat across from him, nudging at Jackson’s knee. “I thought you got into this for the fame and glory,” he needles him. There’s not heat in the dark glare Jackson throws his way; it’s an old refrain between them by now.

Stiles just sinks down, lets his feet drift until they’re pillowed between Jackson’s knees and Lydia’s lap. “I hate this,” he says quietly.

“You love the music.” Lydia’s hand is on his ankle, fingers idle against his skin.

“I love the music.” Stiles tilts his head, looks up at Derek, who is just watching them all silently, expression as quiet and walled off as any good security would be. “Jackson’s words—he writes amazing songs. The funny part is, no one notices how good they are because Danny throws a bouncy tune under it, and then the band starts up and people are dancing and no one gets that they’re singing about recovering from PTSD.”

“Flames in Your Eyes,” Derek says, and Stiles throws him a sharp look.

“Yes. That one.”

Jackson reaches out one foot, nudges Derek’s calf with his toe. “Which one’s about rape culture?”

“We’re Going Home Tonight.”

“Depression?” Stiles asks quickly.

“Take Flight, and Quiver is about anxiety.” Derek’s voice never changes, mild and quiet, his arms crossed as he watches them. “Not everyone misses the point.”

Stiles slides on the seat, trying to hip check him without having to get up and it doesn’t work. He ends up in a heap on the floor between the two seats, one arm over Derek’s knees. “Security pays attention. I’m impressed.”

“I’m—”

“Stop here.” Jackson leans past him, interrupting as he knocks on the window for the driver. “Hey! Pull in here. We want to get out.”

“You want to get _out_?” Stiles can’t believe it; they’ve just escaped the madhouse. What the hell is Jackson thinking?

“I want a drink. I want to dance. And we are currently on a lonely highway between towns and we have Lydia and security.” Jackson shrugs, smirks. “Don’t you want to dance with me, Stiles?”

He has the door open before the car has fully come to a stop. “Jackson, we are going to put on a hell of a fucking show.”

Stiles isn’t sure why Lydia and Derek stay behind in the car as Stiles and Jackson make a run for the door. It must be safe, if they aren’t following. Either way, Stiles just wants to cool off, come down from the high of the show. He wants a little escape.

#

Derek doesn’t know where to look.

Next to him, Lydia is perched on a bar stool, her skirt riding high on her thigh, a hint of a tattoo showing, the rest of the ink sliding up to places he shouldn’t be privy to in a public location. He’s not sure if she’s doing it on purpose; if she means to seduce him or just flirt.

But when he looks out over the floor, he sees Stiles and Jackson plastered together, sweat-soaked from the show and now from dancing. Jackson is behind Stiles, one hand on Stiles’s stomach as their hips fit together, grinding with fluid motion.

Derek aches from it all.

“What am I doing here?” he mutters, and Lydia laughs sharply, pushing a glass toward him.

“Drinking.” She raises her own glass, some kind of bourbon that he can smell from where he sits. “Salivating, too, it looks like. You’re the one who climbed into the car after them.”

“I figured they’d kick me out.”

Lydia’s lips purse in a mockery of a smile. “They think you’re security.”

“I’ve noticed.” Derek’s head tilts, and he shifts on the stool, trying to push his dick back into a more comfortable position. “How has the press not figured out that they’re together?”

“That?” The laugh ripples out, surprisingly rich from Lydia’s throat. “ _That_ is a decade of unresolved sexual tension. Stiles had a crush on me in third grade; Jackson was pretty sure he had first dibs. They hated each other for years.”

“Did you date either of them?” Derek’s gaze flits between the two young men and Lydia. She holds her drink like she’s old enough to be legally drinking it, rather than barely nineteen.

“Jackson in middle school and most of high school. Stiles senior year.” Lydia tilts her glass, considers the amber liquid before taking a sip. “They’re both a good fuck, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Do you still?” It’s too personal to be asking, but half a glass in and Derek’s tongue is lubricated, set free by the tension he sees between the two, and his wish to slip himself between them.

“Sometimes.” She shrugs once. “We’ve been on tour for three months and none of us like hookups. Jackson thought he would, until he had one, and it turned out she was bugfuck nuts. We three tend to stick together. Scott’s a puppy, and no one would hurt him. He’s in and out of beds so fast they can’t hold on. And Isaac follows Scott around, sometimes right into bed, sometimes taking the other girl he’s with. Danny meets a new guy in every city, but he won’t do any more than let them blow him; he’s dating an absolute asshole back home.”

It’s more than Derek’s managed to observe, even after three solid months. His tongue flicks out, licks a droplet from his lips and then he takes another gulp of the drink, draining the glass and signaling to the bartender that he wants a refill. “Do you actually know who I am?” he asks.

“Guitarist.” Lydia’s gaze rakes over him. “Unlike the boys, I pay attention to the backup band. I’m the one signing the checks.”

“How the hell did you get that gig at nineteen?”

“They wouldn’t trust anyone else.” Lydia pushes her drink away, covers it with her hand when the bartender offers more. “I’m going to go make some phone calls, let the rest of the guys know that we won’t be on the bus tonight and we’ll meet them in the next city. We’ve got a day off, and I’m getting us a room for the night.” She gives him a look. “You go dance.”

“I don’t just want to dance,” Derek admits.

“Then be a catalyst.” Lydia comes in close to him, her hands over his shoulders, lips against his cheek. “I always figured I’d take that role, but it never happened. Are they watching?”

Derek has an arm around her, settled at the small of her back. She fits between his knees, petite and comfortable. He slides his gaze sideways, then looks back down at her. “Yeah. They are.”

A smile tilts her lips. “Good.” She leans up, presses a kiss to his lips, wet and open-mouthed, tasting like expensive bourbon and coffee. “I’ll be back once everything’s arranged.”

Derek watches her go, hips swaying like she can feel his eyes following her. There’s a soft thunk next to him, and he reaches out for the glass, drains it in one long gulp while he tries to figure out exactly what he’s gotten himself into and if he’ll get out unscathed.

Probably not.

He just hopes he doesn’t lose his job or fuck things up completely. They’ve still got another three months on the road.

“Where’s Lydia going?” Stiles and Jackson push in next to him, both managing to occupy the narrow space between Derek’s stool and the one Lydia abandoned. Jackson leans over the bar, signaling for drinks, while Stiles stares at Derek, head tilted and brow furrowed.

“Getting a room,” Derek says, and he only realizes how that sounds when both Jackson and Stiles are glaring at him. “For all of us,” he adds. “Lydia’s telling everyone that we’ll meet them there before the next performance, and that we’re not going to be on the bus.”

“You aren’t on our bus,” Jackson points out. “I’d remember that.”

“I travel with the rest of the backup band,” Derek says dryly, wondering if they’ll figure out who he is _now_ , but no, they’re only leaning in and talking to each other about so _that’s_ where security sleeps. He raises both eyebrows, waits until they look at him. “I’m _not_ security.”

“You’re big and beefy.” Stiles pokes him in the chest. “You look like a bruiser.”

“And you grabbed Stiles out of the crowd, manhandled him right out of the way.”

“Dude, you were watching?” Stiles glances at Jackson, who shrugs.

“We were separated. I was trying to get to you, but he got there first.”

Derek pinches his nose, wondering if this is all a really bad idea, if he ought to just get a cab to get him back to his own bus, back to the people who make sense and don’t taunt him with rolling hips and tension that he can feel pricking at this skin. “Guitarist,” he mutters. “I’m the guitarist for your backup band. I have been playing _your_ music while _you_ sing on the same damned stage. But no, you’re a boy band. No one ever notices the backup band.”

Stiles and Jackson exchange a look, and they speak in unison. “Sorry.”

Derek waves one hand. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, your music is good. It’s better than what you do with it.”

“This isn’t how I planned on getting on stage,” Stiles admits. He glances at the bartender who’s leaning just a little too close, and his mouth snaps shut. “Let’s go find Lydia and the driver. I want to get out of here now.”

Jackson tosses back his drink. “Pity we don’t have a guitar with us. It’d be a fun night to play around.”

The funny thing is, he’s right, and Derek’s not sure which he’d like more—the sex that Lydia suggested, or the music that Jackson’s offering.

Both would be brilliant.

#

Stiles flops back in the middle of the king-sized bed, starfishing and sprawled enough take over most of it. It’s _his_ and no one is going to convince him otherwise. “You guys get the floor, this is mine.”

“We’re sharing,” Lydia says, flipping the deadbolt on the door. “This is the only room they had, and I am _not_ sleeping on the floor. There’s plenty of room for all of us.” She picks at the buttons of her blouse, shrugs out of it before she shimmies out of her tight skirt. She pauses as she’s folding them neatly atop the dresser. “What? It’s not like I brought PJs and you’re going to sleep in your underwear. It covers more than my bikini.”

“She has a point,” Jackson says. Stiles rolls over to look and yeah, she has a definite point. She also has fantastic boobs and three men staring at her.

Not that this is unusual for Lydia.

“Strip,” she orders. “Get comfortable. I’m not going to be the only one ready for bed.”

“I’m not sleepy,” Stiles whines, because they were talking music in the car and now his fingers itch. “Jackson, toss me the ice bucket.” The ice bucket flies to him, and when he looks up again, Derek has his fly opened, hands hooked in his jeans like he’s ready to peel them down.

It looks like he has a damned nice ass, too, not to mention the hint of Under Armour showing.

“Close your mouth, Stiles, you’ll drool on the sheets.” Lydia hops up onto the bed, slides in close to him. “I said get ready for bed. I didn’t say anything about sleep. Although I hope we don’t get thrown out for making too much noise.”

“I can drum quietly.” Stiles catches Jackson’s gaze, wants to know if he’s okay with what’s happening here, but Jackson already has his shirt stripped off and is pulling off his skinny jeans. Derek isn’t far behind, and Stiles feels over-dressed in short order.

He also feels outclassed, between Derek’s hairy and broad-shouldered chest, and Jackson’s smooth abs. Lydia touches his shoulder and nods, and Stiles sets the bucket aside long enough to shimmy out of his clothes, stripping down to a pair of plain black boxers.

“What’s the bucket for?” Derek settles in on Stiles’s other side, lightly taps the top of the bucket.

“Exactly.” Stiles pulls his feet in to sit cross-legged, the bucket between his feet. He taps it a few times, gets a feel for how the sound changes depending on where he hits it, then he starts a slow rhythm. He’s searching for something more musical than just the beat, and he manages to find it, teasing a faint tune from the plastic along with the rhythm.

He realizes after a moment that Derek is following along, humming the guitar line, just as slowed down as Stiles has it, taking the bounce and lift from the song. He and Jackson have done it this way before, slow and quiet, following the meaning of the words, transforming it from a pop dance song into what they always meant it to be. Someday Stiles hopes to do it for a Spotify session maybe, or for Unplugged. Right now, though, the fluff is what sells, and they’re under contract.

Someday, though. Someday.

Jackson adds his voice, the low base a thrumming line before Stiles starts to sing. They harmonize like they always do, blending perfectly, surprised when Derek joins in, adds a third line on top of theirs, finding his way between them. It’s not like Scott or Isaac or Danny, and he doesn’t try to speed it up or change the pace. He just floats along with them, singing quietly while Stiles taps out the tune on the bucket, slowing when it ends and letting it trail off into silence.

“I didn’t know you could play.” Derek nods at the bucket, and Stiles shrugs.

“It doesn’t really come up much. Jackson plays piano. I do piano, guitar, and drums. Scott grew up on bass after training in classical violin. Danny started out in dance before Jackson convinced him to take a chance on singing with us, and Isaac.” Stiles’s smile is fond as he shakes his head. “Isaac has his voice, and that’s basically it. He didn’t really have much advantage in his childhood.”

“What do you need us for then?” Derek moves onto the bed, makes space so that Jackson can crowd in close, and Stiles wonders what’s happening here, wonders who Derek is going to fuck tonight and who’s going to end up in the hotel lobby waiting for the signal that they can come back to the room. Maybe he’ll let Jackson have him. Maybe Stiles will convince Lydia that the car is still romantic and playful, so they can both get off, too.

“We don’t play instruments,” Jackson grumbles. “It’s not in our contract. See, that’s the problem with winning a talent show. They own us for three years and two records. They tell us when to jump, how high, and sometimes they try to tell us who to fuck.”

“We don’t listen,” Stiles offers.

“They really don’t,” Lydia agrees.

“It’s been what… eighteen months so far?” Derek lies back on the bed, head pillowed on his hands. “This tour has another three months, then you go back in the studio and six months from now you release another record. Tour for most of a year. Then what?”

Stiles looks at Jackson because they’ve talked about this. All of them have at one point or another, about how this wasn’t meant to go this far.

“I don’t know,” Stiles admits. “Everything’s changed. Scott’s still my best friend, but Jackson’s my song writing partner now instead of my enemy. Danny just wants to go home and deal with his asshole boyfriend. Scott falls in love and talks about leaving the tour for a different girl, and then he claims he’s going to keep Isaac as a house husband as well. None of us are doing what we want to do. But this is who everyone thinks we are now, and they’ll never take us seriously.”

Derek snorts. “Fuck ‘em.”

Jackson flops, half across Stiles, his hand patting Derek’s knee. “I like this guy.”

And that’s the signal that Stiles has been waiting for, the idea that something is happening here tonight and it isn’t about the music. “Jackson, we’ll step out so you can— _what_?” Stiles stops when Lydia grabs his ankle.

“Just sit back down, Stiles, and play some music,” she says quietly. “No one’s going anywhere tonight, okay?”

He doesn’t know what to do with the way she looks at him, the way her thumb slides across his skin. He can see the want in Derek’s eyes, he knows Jackson’s going to fuck him before the night is over.

But it’s Lydia, and when she says sit, he sits.

They rearrange themselves in a new pile, and Stiles is the only one sitting up so he can drum. Derek is wrapped around him, and Jackson lies on his back, head pillowed on Derek’s hip. Lydia curls up where Derek can reach her hair, idly toying with the strawberry blond hairs.

There are no singles, nor couples; the four of them are entangled, and Stiles doesn’t know what to think about it except that he likes it. He taps out random rhythms and sounds, and the music flows between them, passed back and forth, handed off and joined together, creating something new.

It’s good.

It’s the first time he’s felt like this about music since they went on that damned show, and it gives Stiles hope.

#

When the morning sun peeks between the blinds, Derek wakes to find himself at the bottom of a pile of warm bodies. He stretches, reaches out his arm and winces when pins and needles come to life. By the time he’s able to feel his fingers again, he realizes that Lydia is watching him.

“I wasn’t the catalyst,” he whispers, and she only smiles and reaches out to touch his face, stroking a finger down his cheek.

“Yes, you were, just not for sex.” Her finger moves across his lip, and he thinks about nipping at it, drawing it into his mouth, and he wonders what would happen if he did.

It doesn’t feel right, though, not here and now. Maybe someday. Maybe something, if he can ever figure out what he wants or who he wants or maybe it would be all of them, starting out just like this, only with more nudity.

Stiles stretches, rolls away, and Jackson chases after him, wrapping around him. It gives Derek space to slip out of bed, pad to the window with Lydia following. She has one hand on the small of his back, fingers light and warm in the cool morning air.

“You were still a catalyst,” she murmurs. “And I think you will be in the future, too. Don’t walk away. The music that you three made last night was fantastic. I don’t know if Jackson will remember it all, but he’ll be writing in the car today. You’ll still be working in the car, I can see it. You’re the piece they’ve been missing all along.”

“Musically,” Derek says, because that’s all it’s been so far.

“Maybe. Maybe more.” Lydia shrugs, and he feels the movement on his back, her fingers trailing up his spine and down again. “Don’t write yourself out of the song, Derek. This is a whole new album, one for when the current contract is over. If you think you’ll be around when that happens.”

He looks over at the two still sleeping sprawled in the bed, momentarily escaped from their boy band world. The rhythms from the night before still thud in his head, melodies twisting around his mind, and he nods before he has time to think about it. “Yeah. When the beat slows down, I’ll still be here. We’ve got plenty of music to make.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com)!


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